


Rose-Colored Boy

by CosmicBat



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Seduction, Betrayal, Deal with a Devil, Enemies to Lovers, Forbidden Love, Heroes to Villains, Horcrux Hunting, M/M, Ritual Sex, Sex Magic, Soul Bond, Soulmates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:42:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21662359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CosmicBat/pseuds/CosmicBat
Summary: While the annihilation of the horcruxes is proving to be an impossible task, a ritual in an ancient book gives Harry an idea. Maybe he can't destroy the horcruxes, but he can stitch the dark lord's soul back together, piece by piece until he's mortal once again. Even if it means sleeping with his nemesis.(Decided not to make it a series and instead doing long chaptered story)
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 34
Kudos: 139





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Harry Potter Saga (characters, locations, universe, etc.) belongs to J.K. Rowling and her associates. I own nothing but my ideas, plot, original characters, and original locations. I claim no ownership over the series nor am I profiting from the writing of this work of fanfiction. This is for entertainment and nothing more. Regards, Salem | CosmicBat.
> 
> The title of this fic comes from the song "Rose-Colored Boy" by Paramour.

## Chapter one

* * *

The moon hangs high in the clear sky, perfectly full, like a beacon among the sparkling stars. The beauty of the last full moon of the year is unmatched, as resplendently magical in appearance as it is in truth. The ground in the forest clearing is cold and stiff, frost swirling across the forest floor and branches of gnarled trees in a beautiful pattern.

Harry is grateful to be inside the small black stone cottage Kreacher directed him to, the fire roaring and filling the room with an orange buttery glow, the warmth wrapping around him like a physical thing. He is safe from the cold of the winter night.

Still, he shivers as he glances around the room.

The Black Cottage has no bedroom, it is a small place with a kitchen for brewing potions and bathroom separated from the rest of the house. It wasn't made to be a house, more of a magical ritual space away from home, and it shows. The wide open space that makes the majority of the cottage is a square room with the walls and floor made of moonstone and a domed ceiling of flawlessly smooth quartz like delicate glass windows framed with rose gold. Engraved upon each of the four walls, the floor, and the roof, are intricate golden runic mandalas, ritual circles made to amplify the power of the spells cast in the cottage. An alter sits in the center of the room, onyx and moonstone regally shaped and somewhat ominous. Tall candlesticks stand in the corners of each room, unlit black candles standing tall and proud, near flawless.

Harry spent hours handcrafting the candles, thick pillars of blackened corpse wax with yew wicks stained dark with rattlesnake venom. He spent the past week brewing potions, gathering and hanging bundles of herbs and plants around the ritual space. There are nearly fifty different herbs, plants, and flowers involved in this spell, not including those in the potion or handmade paints, all perfect for spells of love, lust, protection, healing, purification, and psychic power. Many of the plants hanging in garlands and bushels around the room are toxic. The use of so many poisonous plants, as well as blood, sex, and soul, magic classify this ritual as an extremely dark form of magic.

Harry no longer cares.

He had thought that basilisk venom would destroy the Horcrux, as it had in the chamber of secrets with the diary, and with the ring that Dumbledore stabbed with the sword of Gryffindor. However, after he got his hands on a basilisk fang he discovered that basilisk venom only causes damage to the vessel, not the soul fragment inside. He has with him the gaudy locket of Slytherin, the diary, and the Peverel ring, though who knows how many others Voldemort could have made. Dumbledore believed seven, though there is no knowing if Voldemort ever finished making them before his first defeat. A soul can't be killed by mortal means, not while split apart, which meant Harry had no choice but to go delving into the darkest forms of magic.

Soul magic and Necromancy.

He had to repair two of the three horcruxes, and then coax their soul shards back into their vessels. He gad to get acquainted with necromancy and blood magic fast in order to even think of this ritual.

Maybe Hermione would have had a better solution, but she left. They both left. Ron leaving hadn't been as bitter and shocking as it should have been, but he had abandoned Harry once before. Hermione, on the other hand, ripped a hole in his heart when she followed after Ron never to return. He had never felt as alone in all his life as he did then, not even in his second year when everyone thought he was the heir of Slytherin, or in fourth year when his name came out of the goblet of fire, or fifth year when everyone believed he was lying about Voldemort's return. At least then he had his friends, except for the short time Ron abandoned him out of jealousy.

Now, standing in the entrance to the ritual room with the fire in the kitchen warming him up, he can't help but wonder if Hermione would have ever brought this ritual up. The book on soul magic rituals had been among her books. The dog-eared pages showed that she read the book at least, but even so, Harry doesn't think Hermione would have ever suggested this specific ritual. It isn't even due to the dark nature of the ritual, or the difficult to procure ingredients. No, she would have worked around those. Despite it being relatively simple in concept, dark and downright deadly if done improperly, the ritual is, at its core, sacrificial sex magic.

Amalthea Peverell had loved Nicolai Gaunt more than anything. Enough that she created this ritial to help absorb his horcrux when he began to lose his way. Enough to create another ritual for immortality. This ritual was not meant for adversaries.

The castor, Harry, has to make a sacrifice of virginity in the ritual space. It doesn't have to be his own, anyone in the world magical or otherwise would do just fine, but the more powerful the sacrifice, and the fewer people involved, the better. A sacrifice of virginity could be one of life if the castor wasn't willing to have sex with the Horcrux owner, but Harry won't kill an innocent in his quest to kill his adversary.

It will be his virginity and dignity in exchange for the power to defeat Voldemort, in exchange for the safety, temporary or otherwise, of billions of magical and non-magical lives. It is a small price to pay.

The ritual had been created by two people very much in love and, at it's heart, this is an act of love. Sex and soul magic entwined around a core of sacrifice and trust. It is an intimate ritual, twisting their souls together as one. A ritual more intimate than the ancient soulmating of the weddings of the past. It is a marriage of not only bodies, but of mind and soul. Combining a virgin sex sacrifice with blood and soul magic makes it a highly powerful ritual.

Virgin magic in particular is powerful, especially in a place like the Black Cottage. It amplifies intent, opens the participants of the ritual up to their magic and each other's magic. If done correctly, Harry will heal Voldemort's soul, grant him his mortality, and temporarily bind their souls together.

First though, he has to somehow lure the dark lord to the black cottage, convince Voldemort to enter a blatant ritual space, and of course, willingly have sex with him. That is if he can even convince Voldemort to agree in the first place, or annoy him enough that he accepts but doesn't decide to kill him immediately.

Piece of cake.

This was a terrible idea. He's doomed, but he's already spent so much time on this ritual.

Two days after they left he found the book, and he has spent the last eleven days preparing. The full moon is perfect, and he can't afford to wait another year. Voldemort could win by next year. It has to be this full moon, this night. The last full moon of the year. He's spent so much time and effort it would be a shame to not try.

Harry takes a steeling breath and turns away from the ritual room. He doesn't close the door, needing it to be warm since there will be nothing to keep his skin from the cold moonstone in a while. He'll need as much warmth as he can get, so he leaves the fire going even though the kitchen has gotten hot. Better an overly hot kitchen if it means he won't have to lie on ice cold moonstone. Everything is ready for the dark lord to arrive.

Harry sits down on the counter and starts to meditate. He's only just started to learn, he's honestly dreadful at it, but he doesn't need to have good meditation skills. Harry just needs to concentrate on the one thought loud enough that Voldemort might hear him through their link.

He doesn't even have to worry about an ambush, the wards will only let the dark lordin. No one else. They will be alone until the ritual is complete.

It takes surprisingly little time for him to arrive, alone and armed with a murderous expression on his monstrous serpentine face. His incarnadine eyes blaze with lava hot intensity, a promise and threat of violence. "What do you want?!"

Harry smiles. "Who says I want anything?" he questions coyly.

Impossibly the dark lord looks even angrier at his question. "Black Cottage. Matter of life and death. Come alone or I destroy your Horcruxes." he responds in a high pitched mocking voice, repeating the thoughts Harry had been trying to project over their strange bond. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to concentrate when you are screaming in my head? I'm here, I'm playing your little game, you already know what I want from you, so what do you want? My complete surrender?"

"Nothing as drstic as that, though if you're offering..." Voldemort just glares and Harry shrugs. " I simply desire your cooperation." he grins at the incredulity in his facial expression. "Do you know what this place is?"

"The Black families ritual room." Voldemort answers. "I'm familiar."

Harry nods. "Right in one." he jumps off the table. "I've got a ritual I want to try, it's only fair for you to agree given it was my blood that you used in your resurrection ritual, but in case you were planning on saying no, I have a little incentive." He opens the locked box on the counter to show the three Horcruxes. Voldemort looks murderous and reaches for them, only for Harry to slam the lid closed. "Only the Black family head of house can open this box. As Sirius was the last Lord Black, and he named me his heir, that makes me the next Lord Black, which means I am the head of House Black. Agree to participate in my ritual, and I'll return your Horcruxes to you. You are, of course, free to leave whenever your heart desires, but if you don't do this ritual I'll continue to research until I find a way to destroy your Horcruxes. Up to you."

Voldemort looks into the ritual room and then gives him an unimpressed stare. "You'd have to be a fool if you thought I wouldn't recognize a sex ritual when I saw one. Not to mention that, while there are dozens of potions using those ingredients, henbane is never used with agaric outside of soul magic due to the highly volatile reaction they have together in most potions. While I don't recognize this ritual, I'm willing bet that you're trying to force me to absorb my Horcruxes."

Harry sees no point in lying. "Yep." he grins. "But if it works you can just make new ones, and if it doesn't you have nothing to lose and everything to gain."

"I can't remake horcruxes if I reabsorb them." He snaps.

Harry raises an unimpressed eyebrow at him and crosses his arms. "Are you going to try to convince me you only have three horcruxes?" He asks. "I know you have at least one more, probably four."

"Those three are my three earliest Horcruxes." Voldemort crosses his own arms.

"I'm not going to negotiate." Harry smiles sharply. "The kitchen is a blank room, as you might recall. Neither of us currently have magic. You have two options. Do the ritual and take your horcruxes regardless of whether or not the ritual works, or walk away empty handed."

"I could just strangle you," He threatens, "and take the box for myself. Draco Malfoy is next in line to inherit the black home."

Harry laughs, "Of course he would be, but if I die here so does the Black line." At his startled look Harry gives him a viciously triumphant grin. "If I do not show up at Gringotts tomorrow by sundown, the goblins have been ordered to disown everyone who could have any hope of inheriting the Black Lordship. The vaults will be emptied and handed over to the bank, the seats I am set to inherit on my twenty first birthday will be put up for auction, and the Black family assets will be sold or destroyed. I spent two weeks with little rest setting all of my affairs in order."

"You lie!" Voldemort hisses, anger gleaming in his maroon eyes, and Harry steps threateningly into his space, grabbing hold of his robes.

"Don't you dare question my honesty here! Not when I gave up the Potter Vault to the goblins." He spits out, "Everything in it. Family heirlooms, rare artifacts, the personal journals and wands of my parents, their sealed wills, my claim to all the Potter properties and assets, and every last galleon, sickle, and knut, to pay for them to carry out this wish. Whether or not I arrive tomorrow to caIl off the destruction of the Black line, I am no longer a Potter."

The silence that follows his words leaves his ears ringing and Harry lets go of the Dark Lord's robes, stepping back. Defeated, he sits back on the counter, trying not to let the melancholy overtake him again.

"I don't understand." Voldemort's face is unreadable, but his voice is soft.

Harry laughs bitterly and turns his head so he isn't facing the dark lord when his eyes start to water. His voice betrays his sadness when he speaks, but he doesn't dare turn to face him again.

"What I asked of them was no small thing. Not only would an entire house be disbanded, never to being in more money or assets for the bank, but the destruction of the Blacks might very well lead to another war between the goblins and our people. It will be seen as a sign of rebellion even if it is my orders they are following." He reveals, "I had to make it worthwhile for them. Worth another war. The Potter Vaults contain many powerful artifacts from around the world, not to mention that the Potter's were easily one of the richest families in the British magical world. The combined assets of the Potter family were more than worth the risk."

"Not to mention," he continued, "they will recive quite a hefty sum when I arrive tomorrow. If I survive this, I will be allowed to remove anything that is not money or deeds from the Black Vault, and all the money from the trust fund Sirius set up when I was born, and I can even take anything that is not money or deeds from any other vaults my blood shows I can claim, but everything else I own will be seized by the bank. Even if this works am going to be nameless, near broke, with no home, no future, and I won't even be allowed to use the bank again. Harry Potter is dead. I disowned my family for you, though you may not see it as such. As of Sundown tomorrow I am just Harry. I am losing much more than you are, regardless of whether you chose to walk away or to do this ritual with me."

There is silence again. Harry pulls his legs to his chest and buries his face in his hands and knees. After a moment, Voldemort sits down beside him, somehow retaining his regal bearing and ominous presence effortly even as he sits on the countertop. Harry feels his lips twitch with a brief smile, but it is gone.

"What is the ritual?" Voldemort asks, surprisingly civil, and Harry doesn't question his lack of remarks in regards to his new status. It's not a subject he wishes to discuss.

"It is called Ligatumanimea." Harry answers. He lifts up two inticate circlets of aconite, eucalyptus, lavender, and althea and grabs the book, handing it to Voldemort. "It's a soul binding ritual designed by Amalthea Peverell for Nicolai Gaunt, specifically for horcruxes. This is her spell journal. The relevant pages are marked."

Voldemort opens the book, smoothing down the ear marks with a grimace that brings a bitter smile to his face as he recals Hermione doing the same. She hated dog ears with a passion, but she must have done so instead of using leaves or something for some reason.

"This is a rather intimate spell." Voldemort remarks. "Soulmating, memory sharing, emotional link. Our minds will be forever open only to each other. Our souls will be linked in this life and any other."

"Yes." Harry says, "but if you flip to the second grouping of marked pages you will see that I'm not asking you to give up your immortality, nor your war. I don't know anything about your goals, or if you are just a psychopathic mass murderer, but I'm hoping to give you humanity. When you tore your soul you broke your mind. Charm, sanity, power, this is what I'm offering. I'm offering to anchor you, to join you if I must, or to stay out of the war. I am ensuring you are powerful, great, immortal, and victorious. Regardless, this ritual, this offer, is my last act in this war. I will not fight. I surrender myself to you, for better or for worse."

"Why?" The dark lord asks.

Harry chuckles then closes his eyes, tipping his head back. "When I was eleven, Dumbledore told me that my mother's love protected me." He faces Voldemort with a lopsided grin. "Call me a fool, but I'm kind of hoping my capacity for love and forgiveness is enough to make up for your lack of it."

Apparently that was the correct thing to say, for Voldemort nodded, then offered his hand to Harry. "Very well, Harry, I accept this bargain."

Harry nodded, took his hand, then stood with a gulp. "Shall we?"

He tried not to show his fear as he led Voldemort to the ritual room. He made his bed, and now was time to lie in it. Literally. If only his heart would stop trying to burst from his chest. He offered a circlet to Voldemort and sealed the ritual room shut.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This wasn't what I planned when I started writing???!!! Why are there emotions???!!! The chapter that is too short without the smut but too long with it.

## Chapter Two

* * *

The ritual room is barely warm, though perhaps it would be more truthful to say it isn't cold, for it isn't warm. It could be colder, when Harry arrived and started setting up, the room was frosted over and he could see his breath. Cool as it is, at least he won't have to worry about frostbite. Or freezing to the alter.

"Did you prepare yourself?"

The question startles Harry and, though he can understand the necessity of asking, he turns scarlet with mortified humiliation. The ritual is time sensitive. Once the candles are lit they will have a total of fourty minutes to achieve orgasm, though not necessarily at the same time. Though they need not finish together, thirty minutes of that are required to be penetrative, meaning they have ten scarce minutes to remove clothing, relax, set the mood, and do any preparation.

Red-faced Harry answers, "I tried." At the raised eyebrow that gets him he explains, "It wasn't like I had time, with all the preparation I had to do to get this set up. I had maybe twenty minutes before I got up at four am in which I could relax and try my best. I gave up after about five minutes and took a shower instead. It was uncomfortable."

"You mean to say you set up a highly complex ritual that even I can't fully understand in, two weeks I belive it was, but you didn't research how to make yourself feel good during intercourse?" Voldemort asks incredulously.

Harry snorts at his wording. "Where would I have found that information? I'm not old enough to go into a sex shop, and I needed to be fully virginal for this to work so even somuch as asking another to help me out or teach me was out. Also, lube was out of the question because it would negate the ritual, and I can't even ask you if you know a spell because no magic aside from the ritual can be cast in here or we might explode."

The dark lord gives him an unimpressed look. "You know, you have been kind enough to repeatedly tell me I do not have to do this, but are you aware that you don't have to either?"

Harry blinks in surprise then turns away, clenching his fists. "Yes I do." He turns back so he can look him in the eyes. "I do. I'm nervous, terrified really, but with as much effort as I put in this, unless you back out I refuse to."

"Is the pantry stocked with fresh aloe vera leaves and coconut oil?" Voldemort asks.

It's an out of place question but Harry answers nonetheless, "Yes, but we can't leave. The door is spelled closed for the next hour."

"Afraid I'd change my mind?"

"More like, afraid I'd change mine." Harry snorts. He turns and grabs a cedar box from the floor by the door. "The wards automatically seal the room for an hour, unless the ritual is finished after, then they don't open until the ritual is complete. I was unsure if I would need spare ingredients, so I prepared a blank box that wouldn't comprise the ritual. It's bigger than it appears. I needed both of those ingredients you asked about though, so you are in luck."

Harry pulls out two long aloe leaves and a small jar of coconut oil. "This enough?"

"Plenty." Voldemort takes the aloe and oil from Harry, then grabs a small black mortar and pestle and a thin knife made of garnet. "Are these spare as well?"

Harry nods. Voldemort slices the aloe open and then mixes the pulp into the semi-solid oil until it's a fluffy whipped mix in the black bowl. "What is that?" Harry asks, no longer able to contain his curiosity.

"You may have noticed that many sex rituals are designed for a typical heterosexual couple," Voldemort points out, "This mixture has many uses, healing and skin care typically, but it can be used as lube in sensitive rituals such as this as neither have powerful magical properties."

Harry feels an odd tangled mess of emotions at that, the uncharacteristic kindness of the gesture sending a weird dance of butterflies in his stomach. Or bats. For the first time he realises this might not actually be a horrible experience. He has been mentally preparing for pain. A noble villain Voldemort may be, but Harry hasn't been expecting any kind of mercy here. Mostly, he's been expecting death. That, or extreme pain.

Voldemort comes to stand by his side at the edge of the ritual space, barefooted and terrifying. It's a daunting thought, the idea of relaxing in this man's presence, but at the same time Harry realizes that he does trust Voldemort in many ways. In all their time of knowing each other, Voldemort has yet to lie and he always insists on honor. Voldemort, for all their battles, has never really hurt him.

"Can I ask you a question?" Harry hesitantly asks.

"Technically that was a question, but I'll allow another." The dark lord replies with a smirk. It is an unsettling expression on his serpentine face but Harry doesn't expect it is meant to be as creepy as it is.

Harry smiles carefully back, "Why did you agree?"

The dark lord gives him a strange sort of look, then turns so he is facing the ritual circle. "Honestly? I have spent much of my life without equal." He says softly, "I am lonely. It isn't easy to rule through fear, it isn't easy to dismantle the world and remake it anew. I am nothing more than a symbol, almost like a God, but only when I show no weakness. Love is something only humans can feel and I am unallowed to be seen as human or my followers will strike me down. They are sharks waiting for weakness, as I am sure you must know as a symbol yourself."

"No matter how far I come I am still, at my heart, nothing more than that lonely starving orphan. Nothing more than a child aching for affection. Alone, feared, unable to become more than the monster they made me. The monster I made myself." Voldemort's expression was grim. "I grew to accept I'd be alone forever, no more than a dark lord, but then one day a seer predicted the coming of my equal. I was, I admit, obsessed. Of course I wanted to watch you grow, but I was in a difficult situation, on the precipice of victory, and I could not allow you to grow to become a true adversary. So, I went after you. A half-blood like myself, born scarcely before the end of July."

He turns and sets his intense gaze on Harry, who stood riveted and overwhelmed by the strange emotions Voldemort's words invoke. "You vanquished me then." He continues, "As a wraith I could only focus on you, on the power you could grow into, and it was my great honor to know I would be your equal, your opposite. Then, I finally met you once more, and you were this unremarkable and underwhelming child. Just a scared brave child and nothing more. I thought maybe I made a mistake, I had never been a normal child."

"But, there are moments when you shine. Moments in which you are every bit the equal I wished for." His fingers brush a gentle caress of his cheek. "Moments, like learning a complicated ritual of the hardest magics to master in two weeks, when I realize how alike we truely are. Moments when you show such drive, such power, I feel insignificant in your presence. In these moments I realize that you really are my equal."

"I fear the day of our inevitable final battle, for what world waits beyond this dance we share. Beyond us." He whispers, "I don't relish the thought of your demise, I doubt I ever have and I doubt I ever will. I crave our fights and those brief moments where you reveal your true power. I look forward to clashing wands with you because when it is just you and I, I am as worthy of being your equal as you are of being mine. I'd fight you for eternity just to watch you flourish into the perfect adversary."

"Why did I agree?" His eyes turn soft, "I stole your parents and selfishly dragged you into a war as no more than a child, and you stood there and told me that you gave up everything you had for this, even the last memories of the family I took from you, because you believe I am worth saving. No one else has ever seen me as anything more than a monstrous being. I've been irredeemable in the eyes of everyone since my birth, and you gave up everything you had because you wish to prove that I'm capable of redemption. How could I possibly refuse?"

Harry stands numbly, staring with wide eyes at his nemesis. What can he say to that? How can he respond to knowledge that his enemy, who he didn't even realize could feel at all, might already be in love with him without even knowing what he is feeling? There are not enough words in the world, in any language, to describe the feelings he is having.

"Oh," he finds himself whispering, shyly glancing up. Voldemort is nearly close enough to kiss

"Why did you chose this ritual?" Voldemort asks.

Harry laughs disparagingly, "Desperation." He responds. However, now he isn't sure that's all there is. "I don't know. I was going to give up, to surrender to my death, and when I found this ritual in the books Hermione packed for the horcrux hunt it felt like fate. All I had to do was choose to forgive you, choose to let go of my fears, and then maybe I would be able to grow to love you enough for this to be worth it."

He laughs, "I chose to betray everyone counting on me, and I could only hope you would be willing to humor me, or that my death would be quick and not too humiliating. I found it rather improbable that someone like you could be interested in someone like me. I thought I'd have to convince you this was just another way to concur me, to defeat me one last time before I left the war. I was expecting to be used for this ritual and then be forced into self-imposed exile to prevent my presence from being seen as interference."

"Yet," Harry turns so they are standing face to face, "here we stand, and you are saying I never had to worry. You are saying we could have danced around each other as nemeses and you would have been content, and I'm starting to realize I would have been content too. I would have fought until my last breath and I'd have been happy with my purpose."

"I still can. We can walk out those doors in fourty five minutes or so and never speak of this again, never acknowledge this, let it fade into nothing more than a grand, albeit expensive, gesture" he fights back a sob, "But a part of me longs for you, the same part that decided to do this, because I am, at my heart, just like you. A scared lonely orphan desperate to find someone I can trust with my heart."

Once more, Harry is met with silence. Voldemort gives him a soft unreadable expression, then takes his hands. "I am not a good person." He finally states, "I am cruel and I desire to topple the world and remold it in my image. I'm selfish and I will not share you once I have you, even though I can not love..."

Harry snorts, interrupting, "I think you are so used to being unloved, so convinced of the fact that amortentia is supposed to cause you to be incapable of love, that you don't even know you already are in love. Love is nothing more than the desire to never see a world without another person in it, the inexplicable draw that pulls you in orbit around another. Obsession, you can call it that, but I heard your heart, and I feel it's words reflected on my own. My world would be boring without you, without meaning, and that is why I wish to redeem you. I think, neither one of us is ready to admit we would have needed each other even if the prophecy never existed."

Voldemort steps impossibly closer, close enough to kiss if it were not for the height difference, and cards his fingers through his hair. For a second, Harry thinks he might, but then the bracelet on his wrist burns and Harry pulls out of his embrace with a curse, effectively ruining the moment.

"Is it time already?" He asks rhetorically.

"The moon is at it's peak." Voldemort points out. He offers Harry his hand. "Last chance to change your mind."

Harry takes his hand. "Perhaps, but where's your sense of adventure."

The runes glow bright gold when they step into the circle.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weird ritual porn has arrived! Warning for blood, a lot of it, and a very vague reference to past rape in the very end, followed immediately by a promise of murder.

## Chapter Three

* * *

Voldemort leads him to the tall moonstone alter at the center of the circle with perfect confidence, completely at odds with the nervousness that bubbles up in Harry like burning magma. It's laughable that Harry, the one in charge of this plan, should be the anxious unsure one of the two of them, and yet it makes sense in a way. It is not in Voldemort's nature to be uncertain, as it has always been Harry's to second guess all but his rash split-second decisions. It is too late for nerves now, the moment the runes lit up was the point of no return. Harry had chosen this ritual eleven days earlier instead of trying to force Voldemort to feel remorse for the benefit of the witching world, his desperate play to end the war, whether by giving the dark lord humanity, or temporary mortality in which Harry can strike him down if necessary.

The concept of virginity is not one Harry has given much thought to, or at least he had not before this spell came to his attention. In normal circumstances, virginity is a useless concept that people put far too much power into, using it to shame and degrade others. The same can be said of sex. The world runs on sexual hunger, whether magic or mundane, and Harry has never understood it. Sex as a general concept is something Harry can't understand, especially given the way human desire seems to be the motivating factor of everything. The fight, the taste of blood, the rush of adrenaline, Harry understands the effect war has on humanity, he understands how the desire for blood can drive people to truely wicked deeds, but sex? Harry will never understand the way sex can topple empires and the destroy great and powerful. How the touch of another can drive the world to ruin is a concept beyond him.

That said, in a situation like this, intimacy and sexuality wrapped in layers of magic, not for the purpose of procreation or to satisfy some primal itch, he can admit that sex has some use. He worries though, when their minds, magic, and soul have been melded as one, that that strange human desire for procreation will take over him too. The thought is more daunting than even the fact he is about to sleep with the murderer of his parents.

"I don't understand the human desire for procreation either." Startled, Harry jerks his head up to catch Voldemort's contemplative stare. "Your thoughts are very loud."

"Sorry." He apologizes.

Voldemort chuckles. "I don't mind." He assures, "As for your concerns, I always assumed my lack of desire for another was another causation of my conception under the influence of amortentia, but given you seem to share this trait with me as well, it may warrant more consideration. I don't believe you will suddenly awaken some primal urge to mate just because of a ritual of this nature."

Surprisingly, Harry can't find anything to say about this. He should say something, anything, but it's like his mind is blank and his tongue is lead. "Oh." He finally gets out, and then, before he can actually think on it, he blurts, "Hang on, are you a virgin too?"

The laugh that follows is not the high pitched cold laugh from previous battles, nor is it the low dark chuckle Harry has grown to like in the short time they've been here. It's a real laugh, half startled amusement, breathless and caught off guard. Beautiful. Harry realizes immediately that he wants to hear that sound again.

"I am well versed in sex magic." Voldemort says with a fond expression.

Hesitant, Harry questions, "Have you ever done it outside of magical rituals?"

"When I was fifteen, I gave my virginity to someone much older than myself, but it was the price of information and not for pleassure." Voldemort shakes his head. "As much as I want to continue this conversation, Harry, we are wasting moonlight."

"Yes," Harry allows, "But I am not as nervous as I had been, so thank you for relieving some of my fears."

"My pleasure." The dark lord acknowledges. "I will gladly answer any future questions later."

Then they begin and, for all that Harry is the one who chose this ritual, Voldemort is the one in charge now.

Voldemort lifts his circlet; althea and aconite for protection, wards against the evil lurking in the void between life and death, lavender for healing, eucalyptus for clarity of mind; and he places it upon Harry's head. He grabs the black paint from the alter and carefully draws the lines across his cheeks, down the bridge of his nose, down his neck. He pushes the black robes Harry wears to the floor, and the cold air instantly brings goosebumps to his skin. Voldemort continues, drawing the thin lines across his collarbones, down from the hallow of his throat to his belly button. He sets aside the black paint and grabs the white. He spreads some paint in his hands and uses his fingerprints to add dots under the horizontal lines and along the sides of the vertical ones, before grabbing Harry by the upper arms and leaving two perfect handprints on his skin. Harry repeats his motions, but in opposite color. His hands tremble as he crowns his adversary, though not nearly as much as they do when he divests him of his clothes.Though the white paint barely shows on the dark lord's smooth cold skin, the black dots handprints on his forearms stand out starkly agaist the pale color of his flesh. Voldemort stands naked before him, and Harry gulps down his nerves.

He takes Harry's hands and chants, "Northern water, eastern air, southern fire, western earth, grant me your power."

Harry calls out with his head held high, his eyes meeting Voldemort's for strength, "Fire to the North burn through me." The candles light up with white flames like moonlight. "Wind to the East carry me." A gust of wind blows around them making the flames dance. "Water to the South claim me." Water pools beneath his feet, rising rapidly to his ankles. "Earth to the west ground me." At the western corner of the room a pot that was once empty sprouts a tall pomegranate tree. "Elements of magic, I call to thee, as one we stand, so mote it be."

They cup their palms together, patiently awaiting the sign to continue. A pomegranate appears suddenly in their hands, sunshine warmed and perfectly ripe. A fruit of fire and air, grown by earth and water, a fruit of blood, passion, and death. Together they grasp the knife, a blade made entirely from cut polished garnet, and cut through the friuit. Red juice spills like blood from their joined hands, as red and dark as the knife, as red as Voldemort's serpentine eyes. Not breaking eye contact, they each raise on half of the pomegranate up, arms hooked through each others, and they bite into the abundace of seeds. Juice drips down his face onto his chest, as it does to Voldemort. Together, they set the fruit to the side by the paints.

Voldemort lifts their two still joined hands to his lips so he can kiss the back of Harry's hsnd, then places the other at the small of his back. Harry places his free hand hesitantly on Voldemort's shoulder. Together like this, a position oddly close to the start of a dance, the height difference is especially noticeable for, though Harry is tall, he could rest his head on the dark lord's chest if he fancied. Harry gulps at the intimacy of the intense gaze on him, feeling hot and half aroused. In one motion the hand at the small of his back lowers, until there is an arm at Harry's thighs, lifting him up so that he is staring down at the dark lord with wide eyes. He is lowered on top of the cold stone alter, laying on his back as Voldemort crawls over him. The paints are swept to the floor.

With wide stunned eyes, Harry forces his brain to concentrate on anything other than the fact that Voldemort is between his legs, for the thought is equally arousing and terrifying. Otherworldly and vaguely eldritch, Voldemort is every bit the monster of a fantasy. Harry imagines it would be nigh impossible for someone else to desire him sexually as he is, but sexual desire is not something Harry can rely on. Aesthetically, he is terrifying, but he's also probably the only person Harry trusts, truely, as absolutely ludicrous as it seems. Instead, he focuses on the taste of bitter sweet pomegranate on his tongue, on that strange trust he has always held without ever really acknowledging.

Then, Voldemort gives an appraising glance at their naked bodies twined together, his eyes linger on Harry's mouth and flicker up to his eyes in silent question. Harry reaches up to pull him down by the back of his neck.

In movies and stories, fireworks spring up in their hearts as the two lovers connect, but the reality is different. As their lips meet, they both gasp as it fills their hearts with phoenix fire, a supernova blossoming in their souls, as if their two souls and hearts had been searching for each other for lifetimes, unable to truely connect since the day they were born of the same star.

Harry arches up, pressing as closely to Voldemort as he can, wrapping his arms and legs around him in a bruising embrace, as the dark lord presses as close as two souls can while burdened by flesh bodies. "Please." The word slips out in a soft moan, desperate, but Harry doesn't even know what he needs.

Voldemort's mouth moves to his throat, teeth sharper than expected, forked tongue soothing the ache his bite causes. Harry moans gripping his shoulders tightly. The dark lord whispers his name into the curve of his jaw, then reaches over Harry's head. The feeling of his fingers, cold with aloe and coconut oil, startles Harry out of the mindless euphoria brought by the magic of the kiss. Trembling from cold and nerves, legs shaking from both arousal and hunger bought by not eating anything but the bite of pomegranate since two nights earlier to prepare for the ritual, he tries to relax.

"Gorgeous." Voldemort praises in a thick voice. Harry feels heat lance through him at the word and the nerves seem to abate in place of the numbing.

It doesn't hurt when he presses his finger in, not like it had when Harry tried to do it in the early morning without anything to aid his attempt. It isn't even all that uncomfortable. One, two, three. Harry gasps as he is stretched open, perhaps much faster than he'd have preferred but they are getting close to time. The lube greatly improves the experience for him, and he finds it to be nice.

The bracelet on his wrist heats, pain cutting through the fog of pleasure. Harry grabs Voldemort's wrist, using his legs to pull him closer after he removes his fingers. "Now." He breathes out.

"Relax." Voldemort reminds him.

He uses one hand to hitch Harry's leg higher on his hip, the other to guide himself in. Harry hisses at the discomforting stretch, a burn rather than the excruciating pain he'd read to expect, but the sharpness of it goes away much faster than he expected, and doesn't continue much the deeper Voldemort goes. Fully seated, Voldemort grabs the garnet knife, still sticky and slick with pomegranate, slices open the wrist of his wand arm. That hurts, it stings like the basilisk fang, and Harry cries out, his pained sound muffled by Voldemort's lips on his. Voldemort makes soothing sounds as he pulls away, then brings the bleeding wound to his lips.

Harry grasps the knife in his hand, feeling the smooth heavy weight of the stone blade, then carefully slices Voldemort's arm open. The taste of his own blood, given how often he gets into fights, is familiar. The taste of Voldemort's, salt and copper on his tongue mingling with the juice of the pomegranate and the flavor of Voldemort's mouth, has a slightly different flavor to his own. Harry takes the knife and cuts open his palm from pinky finger to thumb, biting hard on his lips to prevent another scream as it is far more painful than it was to cut his arm. Voldemort takes the knife and makes an identical cut across his own palm. They clasp their bloodied hands together and Voldemort stretches his arm up over his head, then begins to move.

Harry still isn't quite used to the intrusion, but the low edge of pain is far from unpleasant. It's deeply satisfying, and it seems to radiate through his whole body like a low buzz of lihtning. The slow steady rock of Voldemort's hips brings a primal sort of pleasure out in him, devastatingly perfect. His eyes lock with the dark lord's, emerald meeting ruby, intense and heated. His pupils are wide, leaving only a ring of red around them, and his face is flushed. The image is highly satisfying in a way that feels less lustful and more predatory. The same feeling of adrenaline evoked by a bloody fight.

His lips are met again, this time with bruising force, teeth clacking, hard, desperate, and edging on painful. It takes a moment to recognize the pain and notice the rush of blood is his own. Harry grins viciously into the kiss, pulling his leg up higher, then tugging at the dark lord's arm. Voldemort flips them so that Harry is sat in his lap, still pressed up against him, chest to chest. The teen kisses him, careful not to dislodge their bloodied hands, then he digs his nails into Voldemort's back, drawing out a surprised pained hiss. He has enough time to recognize the visceral satisfaction that brings him before Voldemort wraps his free arm around his waist and thrusts hard enough to hurt, though not in a bad way. Harry wraps his arm around Voldemort's shoulders, clinging to him.

For a moment, there is nothing but bliss and pain, the sounds of their coupling echoing in the ritual room. Brutally fast and darkly primal, they move in perfect synchronicity, blood and paint smeared between them. Harry finds himself pleading, moaning Voldemort's name against his lips, begging for more. The dark lord praises him with groans of yes and his name in a nearly reverent voice. Harry's orgasm hits him out of nowhere and Voldemort pulls him to a complete stop in his lap, pressing a soft kiss to his lips as he shakes through the intensity of his release. It takes him a moment to get his breathing back to normal, the same to realize that Voldemort had likely come either at the sane time or very close to his own, for he is no longer hard.

Harry pulls his bloodied hand from Voldemort's, then presses it to the side of his face, smearing red across his white skin. Voldemort slides his up Harry's chest, over his throat, and across his face, leaving a bloodied trail over his olive skin. The paints have all smeared to grey smudges all across their skin, some even inexplicably on the top of one of Harry's toes and on his knee. 

Voldemort lifts on of the pomegranate halves up, pressing it so it splits open. Seeds and juice rain down upon their laps, but the majority of the fruit stays attached. Together, intimately close, they lean in to take a bite of the aerials. Close enough to kiss, it is difficult not to do so, for they are still in the middle of the ritual and there are steps to be completed still.

Harry climbs off Voldemort's lap, seeds scattering on the floor, his legs feeling like sponge. The candles are nearly finished burning, and now is time for the final part of the ritual.

He presses his lips to Voldemort's heart and speaks, "Animortem."

His body collapse as if he were no more than puppet with cut strings. A tattered shadow rises up from Voldemort's body. Shards of glass and shadow mingle together until Voldemort's soul is full, a storm of chaotic energy, void, and starlight filling the whole room.

"Animortem!" Harry yells, and he leaves his body to join in the freedom and chaos.

Their souls dance free and wild in the ritual room, no distinction between which soul belongs to which person. Memories are shared in flashes of emotion and light. Harry's mother kissing his face with laughter in her eyes, Tom Riddle trembling with rage as his father ridicules him, Petunia Dursley throwing him into the closet so hard his arm breaks, Tom Riddle sitting near the black lake drawing the death eaters' mark in the diary, Harry being chased up a tree by Ripper, Tom in the cave with Amy and Dennis, Harry defiantly punching Dudley in the face and getting smacked so hard his tooth was knocked out, Voldemort looking at Harry in his crib and telling him he'd have liked to see him grow powerful, Starving, Cold, the warmth of the sun after a month inthe cupboard, the pain of his first exorcism, the his teacher mocking him for being a dumb delinquent and her hair turning blue, the first time he flew without a broom, biting into the rotted flesh of Myrtle's arm to complete the ritual, a soapy frying pan smacking the back of his head when he brought home his first week report with better grades than his cousin, the fear on everyone's faces as he tortured his first friend for calling him mudblood, the thrill of his first fight, blood on his teeth, the basilisk speaking calmly to her master, the burning of the boiler room water heater as he was shoved by an older boy for slmost being adopted, freak, mudblood, Harry standing before Voldemort with a defiant face, Voldemort staring from the back of Quirells head, the smell of the ocean as he rode upon the back of a sea serpent, the dragon hot on his tail as he rode his broom around the arena, Vernon screaming that he was as worthless as his parents, Slughorn telling him how to create a horcrux then pushing him against a desk, his hand slipping lower as Tom closed his eyes in hor..

Harry feels his soul, consciousness, and magic pull back into his body with a horrified gasp. Voldemort has an unreadable sort of expression but Harry doesn't need to see his emotions when they burn bright in his own heart.

"I will bring you his head." Harry rages in a harsh whisper as his heart beats in terror and humiliation, emotions from a boy hurt far too long ago, vengeance burning like phoenix fire in his heart. Voldemort doesn't say anything. The visceral predatory promise of murder in Harry's gem green serpent eyes is enough.

* * *


End file.
